THAT WILL BE ALL

Alex Ziperovich

 

Make the wall bleed by smashing your head against it so your mental wounds won’t bleed so profusely,  displace the disparity between you and the cultivation of the anguish that you lust and create in the streets your insecurely painted war-masterpiece and blame it on a fucked up canvas instead of a psyche that’s weak when you find your defeat and you can’t find a time when you were anything but what it is in the mirror you now see, seeing what you believe yourself to be regardless of that images authenticity

 

Rip yourself all to shreds with thorns from all roses, trying to cremate your body of lies as you beg for more mercy within the violence filling your eyes – right up until they rub the ink on your thumbs at bookings and the gorillas all look hungrily at you and you realize you’re nothing to them but milk and cookies, a rookie trying not to be scared, it’s so hard trying not to see yourself a pussy in there

 

A kid and half a man often a baby and a fucked up friend

Drunk on your uninhibited intuition that tells you to beat up your best friends

After all, it’s only alcohol and so what if you bat a foul ball every single night you’re at last call – It’s probably just a fucking medication lacking or a counselor’s inane lip-smacking but you can’t tell your story because you’d rather get Micheal Jackonsed

 

Flak jackets couldn’t protect you, not tanks or armies, not even women

You are your enemy and you are in the most undignified of positions in wars,

fighting for what was never truly yours, self-worth you refuse to preserve, things that are sad, waiting around until the world barely hears you just fell flat, a dozen facebook messages but that’s all you get when you spent all your time working so hard on this trick

 

You breathe in problems and cry out like a deprived infant, exceeding your monsters

by improving on their lack of honor in your own life, but these are your own nights and you have to bury your head in that iron maiden of your bed every night and it must be a hell but with a perfect window to the sun and escape but you’ve smeared your shit on it for so long your once perfect view, it’s petrified and will, now until whenever you choose, remain unused due completely to you

 

Rats and Snakes burrowing through the trash bin in your brain only to find everything has been consumed already by your own self-loathing and hate, all within, a powerful stimulant and a horrible fate fit for one with nothing to offer and no regard for redemption – accruing snakebites like pissing while smiling on gravesites of people you loved, in the rain without the acute awareness that it doesn’t matter until you find yourself able to distinguish between the rain your piss and dried blood…

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